The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) by Jane Leopold Quinn Page A

school football team. He
was such a hotdog," Butch said with a sneer. "Always had to be the
center of attention with—well, with everybody."
    "He was a good player?"
    "He thought so. Things changed
after his folks died."
    She ignored the hint of
satisfaction in Butch's voice. "That must have been awful for him."
    "Yeah."
    Phoebe glanced at Butch, appalled
at his smirk. Breaking it off with him was the best idea she'd had in a long
time. He was one cold bastard.
    "We're going to the country
club," he announced, changing the tenor of the conversation, dismissing a
friend's sorrow.
    "Okay." She knew he liked
to go out to fancy places, so she'd dressed accordingly in a lavender silk
sleeveless dress with ruching across the bodice to hide the nipple ring and a
skirt that hit her just above the knees. The neckline was a demure shallow V,
and her sandals had only three-inch heels. She didn't want to appear too
provocative and teasing since this was the end.
    She really should break up with him
right now. It wasn't fair to make him buy her dinner and then get dumped. "Butch,
can we go back inside? I want to talk to you."
    "No. I have reservations at
seven. We only have ten minutes to get there. We can talk at the club."
    She was extremely aware that Marc
watched them every step of the way to Butch's Jeep, his Grand Cherokee with its
white-gold exterior. He'd made sure to brag about it the first time they'd gone
out, said it cost thirty-five grand with all the bells and whistles. What a
jerk. She couldn't be bought by his bragging about an expensive car.
    Tight-lipped on the drive to the
restaurant, Butch was the first to speak when they were seated at a table
overlooking the golf course. "Have whatever you want, sweetheart. You know
I can afford it."
    Sweetheart? She ordered a Riesling. He ordered a scotch on the rocks.
    "Butch, I have to say this. I'm
sorry, but I don't think we should see each other anymore."
    He blinked, giving her what looked
like a long-suffering expression.
    His reaction wasn't at all what she
expected. Did he think she was kidding?
    Leaning over, he tried to grasp her
hand. "Honey, don't talk like that?"
    She noted the heightening anger in
his voice. Sliding her hand away from his, she picked up her wineglass. "It
isn't anything personal." Yes, it
is. "You know I want to pursue my career, and I may be leaving town
soon. I've sent demo tapes to several agents. I need to be free to go when I
get the call."
    He stiffened, his eyes going blank,
almost as if he was in his own world. His fingers toyed with a dinner knife. He
picked it up, holding it as if stabbing someone. She could see the muscle at
the back of his jaw flexing. He didn't look at her, didn't do anything until
the waiter came to the table with their entrées. Then, as if nothing had been
said, he took his first bite and finally flashed a glare her way.
    "You know Phoebe, I could help
you, give you everything you've ever wanted. My family has money. One of these
days I'm going to join my father in business. I'm not going to be on the public
payroll for much longer. I'll be rich. We have land all over town. We belong to
the club. You wouldn't have to sing in second-rate bars to support yourself."
    Oh
God. Talk about making someone uncomfortable. Did he think he could buy
her? "Butch, that's very nice of you, but I'm doing fine right now. And I
want…"
    "You're not doing fine! You
live in that crappy little house practically on the edge of town. You've got
transients living on the street."
    "I love my house. It's not
crappy, Butch. It's sweet."
    He leaned across the table, his
face now not so expressionless. In fact he'd flushed red and sweat popped out
on his forehead and upper lip. "It's not good enough for the woman I plan
to marry."
    "What?" Her mouth dropped
open in shock. "What?" She whispered it this time. "You've gone
too far." She picked the napkin off her lap and very precisely placed it
at the side of her dinner plate.
    "Do not leave this